


The Chaos of Color

by CynicallySmitten



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Because of Reasons, Episode: s06e10 The Next World, M/M, Paul Rovia's backstory hurts my soul, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, Still set in the Zombie Apocalypse, The Next World, The one where Daryl Dixon takes Paul Rovia home, some mentions of homophobia and child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-10-09 14:02:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynicallySmitten/pseuds/CynicallySmitten
Summary: Paul doesn't mind seeing the world in shades of gray.





	1. it's green and gold, it's the rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul doesn't mind seeing the world in shades of gray.

Paul isn't sure he believes in soulmates. Oh, logically he knows that soulmates exist. After all, books, movies, and an abundance of cash-grabbing soul matchers have been promising a fairy tale ending from the moment he opened his eyes. 

_It's the most important moment of your life,_ they tell you. _The one true shot you have at happiness. You could meet them any time, anywhere. Finding your soulmate is the easiest and hardest thing you'll ever do. You'll know by the first touch, skin to skin, that it's_ them. _In an instant, your world will be a dazzling sea of color for the rest of your life._

Of course, you have to read the fine print. It's rare – that's the hook, the draw that makes soulmates so damn alluring – because there are seven billion people in the world. And the likelihood of bumping into your soulmate? One lifetime out of ten-thousand. Idealistically. It's less like a partnership of souls and more like an evolutionary lottery. 

But they do know how to sell you on it.

Paul doesn't mind seeing the world in shades of gray. He really doesn't. One of the older women from his first group home used to tell him he had the prettiest eyes, not quite green and not quite blue. He wonders from time to time what happened to her and what shade of blue or green he'd see in the mirror. Of course he's curious. But there are worse things and, if he never knows for sure, well, he'll be just fine. 

He decides early on that he doesn't want to wait on fate to find someone he wants. By the time he's thirteen, he's kissed his first boy. There are more than a few that come after and he learns, like they do, to use less enthusiasm and more finesse. Moreover, he learns not to get attached. Most of the boys he kisses are secretive enough that he never has to admit to anything. Some aren't. He learns some fumbling minutes in the backseat of a Toyota isn't worth the black eye he sports for two weeks. 

While Paul can shrug off most of the shit that gets thrown at him for who he is, when he's fifteen, he scrounges up enough money to take karate classes at the local dojo. The people there are good at what they do – they move faster than he can see, hit harder than he's ever been hit. Paul learns how to fight. He learns to be quick and be smart. More importantly, he learns how to pick his battles. He learns how to survive. 

It's with a good sense of humor that, when he grows out his hair and beard, people start calling him Jesus. When he starts getting into the typical college activism, it seems like there are a thousand jokes to distract from who he really is. It makes pamphlet tossing easier and he's already charming them with bright eyes and an echo of helpfulness. It doesn't stop there. Instead it becomes a tale on the tip of his tongue when he introduces himself. _My friends call me Jesus,_ he takes the identity with levity, laughs at the absurdity of it even before the world ends. He embraces the mask. It's a way to see him through different eyes. A peacekeeper, a socialist, or just someone to turn to. 

In truth, Paul has never been a man of faith or religion. He doesn't believe in a higher power, he doesn't believe in fate. He rarely thinks about the possibility of finding his soulmate when the world has seven billion living people: even less so when most of the world is dead and rotting. He thinks maybe it's more important that he believes in _people._

He learns that fate has a wonderful, terrible sense of humor when he meets Daryl Dixon.

-x-

There are a few things that come instinctually to Paul, things he learned in the world before; most, he learned when he was younger and practiced to the point that they were now second nature. One of these things is subterfuge. Making his way in and out of situations. Unlocked doors, pockets emptied, and more than one set of cuffs...These things are all open to him if he really needs it. 

It's not exactly like Paul likes messing with people. Okay, yes – yes, he does but, in this world, it's less out of whim than it is necessity. He sees the truck packed together, two men that look just the rough side of shady, and thinks it's so convenient, there might as well be a bow tied around it. It's a good haul and honestly? Hilltop needs it. He doesn't want to think about what will happen if any more of his people go hungry. Or what the Saviors will do if there isn't enough tribute. 

The image of a sixteen year old splattered over the dirt while his mother sobs next to him isn't one Paul will forget soon. 

So, he goes for it. 

It takes nothing, just a swipe of keys and a few firecrackers to distract them. 

He introduces himself, sizing up the two men with as much trust as they give him. Two lone gunmen working together, that fits the image. The way the first gun stays trained on him long after the other has dropped confirms just what he'd assumed. Not to be fucked with, like two rattlesnakes that only by coincidence curled in the same hole. 

Paul watches them both carefully but his eyes linger over the man squinting at him. He's sleeveless and looks like he has a layer of grime and sweat on his skin. Worse is the sweat-damp hair that falls into his face. These are not things that should be attractive and yet...Well, his taste in men and his instincts of self-preservation have never gone hand-in-hand. 

“I'm Rick,” the more amicable one says as Paul turns to leave, “This is Daryl. What's your name?” 

Paul slows to turn around and face them. He pulls down the bandana covering his mouth. The introduction is flippant but he curls a charm around the words. Mostly, he's hoping they don't change their minds and try to shoot him before he can leave. The time he has left counts down as he introduces himself.

“Paul Rovia,” he says, opening his arms in a dramatic flare for humor, “but my friends used to call me Jesus. Your pick.” 

“You said you didn't have a camp. You're on your own?” Rick considers him. 

Paul shrugs off the lie easily.

“Yeah but, still, best not to try anything.” 

“Best not to make threats you can't keep either,” the other one – Daryl – warns.

There's no fight in his posture but his eyes are dark, hard and sharp as flint when he looks at Paul. He can almost hear the rattle of a snake while he watches the two fall back to observe him. _Look_ , Paul deciphers from their stares, _but be aware that I can strike._

Paul inclines his head, the faint glint of a smile behind his words, “Exactly.” 

But his time is running out and he starts around the side of the building before Rick can question him further. It's about twenty seconds until they'll investigate the commotion. He'll need to sprint to the truck. Paul hears a derisive scoff as he counts down until the noisemakers pop off, _“The guy calls himself Jesus.”_

He steals the truck, the vending machine swerving back and forth on the road behind him as he leaves behind a cloud of dust. From there, things seem to spiral out of control. When he pulls over to fix the tire, they jump him. Paul finds himself on the side of the road with his hands and feet tied. He's happy to be out from under the gun of the two men but confused as to why they haven't shot him. They've had multiple opportunities to kill him and yet they've done no more than question and restrain him. He studies Rick as he's finished being tied. 

_“There's a lot of food on that truck,”_ Rick had said with a tilt of his head. 

They've persisted after this truck, fighting for it in a way that Paul recognizes. They're bringing that food back to a group.

“Maybe we should talk now,” Paul offers to Rick's retreating back. 

“Nah,” Daryl answers for them both. 

“Here, 'n case ya get thirsty.” 

He throws a near-empty can of soda at him and climbs into the passenger seat. That shouldn't make him laugh but Paul smiles at the ground as the two men enjoy their success. He's on the back of the truck and bondage-less by the time the engine starts. It does nothing to belittle the sound of Daryl's shout of, _“So long ya prick!”_ as Paul settles silently on the roof of the truck. 

Unfortunately, the victorious country music blasting from the speakers isn't quite enough to hide the sounds of Paul stumbling on the metal roof. He knows they've heard him when he's thrown forward in front of the truck. He staggers on the field they'd driven over and stares at them through the windshield. 

Then, he bolts. 

What begins is a strange game of cat and mouse that leads to Daryl chasing him back and fourth while Rick drives circles around them both. There's a hilarity to it that he can't really enjoy in the moment. He'd still probably laugh if he could catch his breath long enough. He weaves around Daryl several times before Rick leaves the truck to handle the walkers roped together a few yards away. Paul takes the opportunity to make a break for the front seat.

“C'mere!”

Paul scrambles into the truck. He winds up splayed out over the leather seats and gripping the steering wheel for leverage. As soon as he's in, he can feel the man's hands pulling at his clothes, his jacket, his boots. Anything to pull him out of the driver's seat. He's curled halfway over Paul when Paul spots the motion of a shambler. He points the gun directly at Daryl's head and he freezes. Still panting, Paul acts.

“Duck!”

He does and Paul pulls the trigger. The body collapses to the ground. 

It seems like no time has passed before Daryl thanks Paul and his fist flies into Paul's face. 

“That's my gun,” the man growls, above him once again. Daryl pulls harder on the front of his jacket. _“C'mere.”_

They tussle for a few more moments, limbs in every which direction. Paul has his eyes shut, reeling. He's still too dazed from the punch to realize the feeling of falling backwards is not just him. The truck rolls farther with every second. Before he knows it, Paul can feel himself being tugged out the driver's side door and onto the grass. 

The truck is headed downhill into the lake. 

_Shit._

Paul blinks for a moment and looks down at the ground below him. The grass is soft and green. He knows it is. He knows not because he's been told but because he can see it beneath him. Paul can **see** it. As if a switch has been flipped, his world is washed away in green and gold. In _color_. He doesn't know whether to be amazed or terrified. 

Which is about the time the door of the truck collides with the back of Paul's head and his vision goes dark.


	2. leave me in my monocrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His soulmate. 
> 
> A double-talking thief that calls himself fucking Jesus. 
> 
> Good Lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: 
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of physical spouse/child abuse, so please read at your own discretion. If you'd prefer to skip it, just skip past the little '-x-' symbols.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

Here's the thing: Rick ain't subtle about any of this. You could argue that Rick hasn't been subtle in the entire time Daryl's known the man but right now? He's a smug bastard. A smug bastard with blue eyes that match the color of his shirt. _Fuck._ Rick knows this guy sets Daryl's teeth on edge, knows Daryl will keep eyes on him the entire time he's within shouting distance of their home; the only thing he doesn't know is why.

Find some people, he says. Like he ain't found enough people, like he ain't been taken from enough. 

Rick's in the driver's seat, just as confident and sure as he was this morning. 

Daryl sits in back and tries not to look at a stranger that's somehow his...Goddamn insanity, what that is. The man's passed out next to him and all he can feel is static electricity, sharp strokes of energy that don't sting so much as fuckin' irritate. That, and a damn headache. Shit if he knows what that means. 

Rick turns sharply and, in an instant, they're touching. It's just the press of leather, not the livewire rush that came with the punch from earlier, but fuck if it ain't enough to nearly choke him. Daryl pulls his arm back, knocks the guy upright so he isn't touching him anymore. Rick's still lookin' like a cat with a mouth full of dead bird. He glares at the driver's seat and looks away. 

“You wouldn't 'a left him.” 

“I woulda,” Daryl denies, his skin still prickling like he's got fiberglass underneath. “Right up in a tree.” 

“No, I know. Almost as soon as we got Alexandria, you got it,” Rick says in that firmly optimistic way that Daryl has no defense against. He can't fight Rick on this, ain't about to dredge up his own shit just to give Rick a kick in the teeth. “You saw. You, Michonne, Glenn, you all tried to tell me. So shut up-” 

The car swerves. To say that Daryl ain't expecting it is an understatement. The man falls into him, his left side curled entirely into Daryl's right. Daryl inhales sharply. His head falls onto Daryl's shoulder and it's like bathing in the sun. Every inch where he's been touched is overheated and the worst of it? The fuckin' hairs tickling his neck, the only parts that ain't covered by the man's clothes, like running a hand over a lit fire. 

Daryl grunts as he pushes him away with his elbow. The least amount of contact he can use.

_“-'cause I'm finally listening.”_

Daryl looks over, unable to stop himself. The light from the window plays over the other man's cheekbones. He's younger. Maybe in his mid-thirties? He has no laugh lines, no shadows under his eyes. Pretty. 'Course he'd be fuckin' pretty. Ain't like the universe wouldn't love to dangle this idiot in front of him, watch him leap around after him like a high-strung alley cat. 

Daryl bites his thumbnail and looks out the window, searching. 

-x- 

There ain't a point at which Daryl Dixon got to question whether soulmates existed. 

He remembers the first time he saw his father recoil after landing a blow to his mother's jaw. He was maybe eight years old; Merle was fifteen. Hiding from view in the kitchen, his older brother sitting on the counter while Daryl curled himself on the floor next to him. Merle looking oddly sastisfied by his father's stumbling. Their father shouted for her to _“get the fuck outta here”_ and his mother left, holding the left side of her face as she went. 

Merle bit his lip, smiled at the broken tile under his hands. 

“Wha' happened?” Daryl questioned in a whisper. 

“He got a piece of his own medicine, that's all.” 

“What, why? She didn't-she didn't try-” 

Merle chuckled lowly. 

“Nah, little brother, just his own bond coming 'round to knock him down a little. First time in a while, maybe the last if he gets what he wants.”

“How? How's he even gotta bond after...” 

Merle snorted. “Boy, I know you ain't needin' another lesson 'n the birds and bees.”

“Stop, ain't that...s'just...” 

“Just?”

“How can he still...” Daryl trailed off uncertainly. “If he still lo-”

“Why ya gotta ask so many damn questions?” His brother growled, crossing his arms.

On the floor, Daryl pulled his arms around his knees. He shoulda stopped before he'd started. His parents were soulmates but that didn't change anything. It never really made the topic of conversation either. His father spent most of his time out drunk or shooting and his mother preferred the escape of wine and Virginia Slims. It just didn't make sense how a bond ain't never stopped his father's fists, much less saved his mother from 'em. Soulmates didn't seem all that special when they could end up like this. Nothin'...nothin' bout it seemed right. 

Merle gave a scoff, rolling his eyes.

“It ain't a fuckin' fairy tale. It ain't enough to be livin' and breathin' in the same house.” 

Daryl bit anxiously at his thumbnail. “Shouldn't it, I dunno...break?” 

“They don't break, baby brother. That bond's what gave 'im a sock in the jaw, the bond let 'im feel what she felt for a minute.” 

There was a moment where the house seemed to fall silent. Merle stared out the window, his mouth twisted into a scowl. Daryl didn't understand, not really. Merle was always like that though, small pieces of logic that never made sense until he was waist deep in whatever mess Merle was in. Even at seven, Daryl knew better than to kick that nest of scorpions. Instead, he looked up at Merle and whispered, “So, the bond got 'im back for it?” 

Merle laughed, a hollow thing that made his chest tremble. “The thing wants 'im to stop bein' who he is, feels how much they hate each other and tries givin' em a dose of 'dorphins. Like some swell of pussy emotions'll be enough to turn things 'round.”

“How do you know?” Daryl asked.

“Seen it happen b'fore to em, listened to him bitch and moan about it after he nearly broke his arm 'few years ago. Ain't a hard thing to figure out, nothin special to it.” Merle slid down off the counter. He bent over, hands on his knees as he stared down his brother. “Listen here, little brother. Soulmates ain't nothin' but a leash and a beating, you hear? Be glad you ain't havin' to worry about it.”

Daryl nodded. 

Merle tugged on the front of his brother's shirt. “C'mon, get your ass up before-” 

The clatter of a kitchen chair came from just outside the kitchen, making them both jump. 

_“The fuck are you two shit-for-brains doin' in there? Get the fuck out! Out!”_

_The bond between soulmates._

A load of shit, Daryl figures out.

-x- 

Daryl should've, at some point, just said that it ain't just the fact that this guy's _him_. If he were different – if things were different – he'd tell Rick to get Abraham, let him take over this humanitarian shit. But too many conversations tonight have rolled around in his head; Rick's confidence that this guy deserved their help and this prick being...this prick...leaves Daryl restless. 

Rick tells him he'll get his feet and Daryl silently follows. Daryl puts his hands on the guy's shoulders, pushing him up, the heat from before rushing back. It feels even more charged now that he's creating the movement. 

He tries not to think about that first punch and what it'd be like to touch skin.

Daryl clenches his hands into fists under his soulmates arm's, ignoring the man's weight against his chest, warmth he can feel down to his toes. He grunts, shaking his head when Rick looks back with concern. Alexandria is quiet at night and the sound reverberates as Rick knocks at Denise's front door. 

Daryl feels the seconds tick by in his own erratic breaths; he's not sure how much more of this he's taking before he just drops this asshole to the ground. The idea is tempting, if it weren't for some bullshit part of himself that rings out a clear _**no**_. After a moment, the porch light flips on and Denise opens the door. Her face is just as tired and confused as Tara's behind her, looking down at the stranger they've got tied between them. 

“We're sorry to wake you up,” Rick starts, ever the gentleman.

“Who's this?”

“C'mon man, he's heavy,” Daryl interrupts breathlessly. Denise looks at him, squints through her glasses at Daryl. In an instant, Daryl feels more tired than he has in weeks. Girl's smarter than this, better at reading people than most. Maybe she's just concerned about the sweat in his hair. Maybe she knows he's bullshitting.

“Oh, that uh, that thing didn't work out. It's this asshole's fault.” Daryl looks down at him, rolling his eyes. “Sorry.” 

“Okay, lay him on the bed,” she says quietly. 

Daryl turns around, walking backwards through the doorway. 

Daryl sees Rick's look. Ignores it. He's doing it; he doesn't have to agree with it.

“Alright, take a look at 'im.” Daryl pants, frustrated, “He ain't staying though! ” 

When he puts the man down for the final time, Daryl realizes the sensation from before isn't going away. The surge of warmth in Daryl's chest still feels like a burn, still drills holes into him. He can feel those irritating sparks though, telling him to put his hands back where he had them. He should say something to someone in case this thing gets worse. He should but ain't a chance in hell he will. 

Daryl kneels next to him. 

His soulmate. 

A double-talking thief that calls himself fucking _Jesus_. 

Good Lord. 

Daryl never asked for this. Never asked for anybody to show up on his doorstep. Never asked to make decisions on who to trust again. It's been too much, riding out the ups and downs of everybody's shit. Being fucked over and over and over just lingers on his skin after a while. Makes him want to be outside the walls again, where he doesn't have to think about nothing and nobody. It would be easier. Smarter, too. 

But that ain't him. Something like that ain't his life, ain't his fate. (Daryl hates that damn word, hates every asshole that's used it to describe some unavoidable fork in the road where you pretend you don't got a choice.) He's not some bastard about to abandon all of it 'cause some prick comes crashing into his life. 

If that was ever him...it ain't anymore.

Daryl thinks about the truck disappearing out of sight, being thrown up against it, the touch still a mundane thing back then, and the gun pointed at his face. 

_He helped you,_ Rick's voice repeats in his head. 

Daryl sets down the glass of water the cookie in his hands, embarrassed for holding onto it for so long. He avoids Rick's gaze as he steps back to lean against the doorway. Rick, thankfully, doesn't say anything. Instead, he steps forward to prop a note on the water glass while Daryl stands back and watches. He glances back at Daryl and Daryl nods. 

_“We'll see.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have, like, half an idea of what I could do with this fic. Maybe.
> 
> If this is something you'd be interested in seeing more of or you have any ideas of where you'd like it to go, let me know. 
> 
> Love and appreciate you all! 
> 
> -Amy


	3. when the only color is red sky in the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well, I am his soulmate,_ Paul thinks, but something tells him that Daryl would rather eat his gun than hear him say it out loud.

Paul opens his eyes in a room he's never seen before. It's not the first time it's happened, not nearly, but a momentary surge of adrenaline has him sitting up and searching the empty room. No one and nothing but a note, a glass of water, and a cookie next to what looks like aspirin. Pretty decent of them overall, Paul thinks, touching his head thoughtfully with his still-bound hands. He's got nothing out of place, nothing changed except his knives are gone. 

These people are the real deal.

One of them is his soulmate. _Daryl._ Just the name, the memory, sends a fevered kind of reaction in him. It leaves him breathless and distracted. He wants to look around for him, find the source of the thrum that exists outside himself but he can still feel in his lungs, his fingertips. 

Of course, given that his soulmate was the one that put him here, that might not end well for him. 

The whole situation but it just...it's too big to think about. Paul wants to laugh at it; he should laugh at it, it's so ridiculous. He lived long enough to see the world end and meet his soulmate and what does he do? He steals from him only to get knocked on his ass by said soulmate. How does that even happen? Would it happen to anyone else but him?

 _No,_ an overly optimistic part of him says, _because it was always meant to happen to you._

Either way, he knows Daryl won't appreciate what he does next. 

Paul has always been good at slipping away quietly and he's no less discreet when he makes his way into Rick's home. Sure, maybe it's not the most polite way of doing things but it's better than waiting it out and letting them discuss it without knowing all the facts. If Paul were polite, he'd knock when he reaches the master bedroom. He doesn't. Instead, he's greeted by the sight of Rick and what's probably his wife, nude and barely covered by a white sheet. 

_In for a penny..._

“Rick,” Paul whispers. “Rick, wake up.” 

With a blink, Paul has a gun trained on him again. Also, this time, a sword. He can't exactly blame them. It doesn't go unnoticed that neither of the couple care about their nudity and, honestly, Paul respects that too. _Not to be fucked with,_ he thinks back to his first assumptions. He raises his hands in a universal sign of non-violence. 

“We should talk.” 

He waits in the stairway for the two to get dressed. 

He's perfectly content to stand there until a flash of color catches his eye. It's a painting of a playing card with three queens: hearts, clubs, and spades. Red. He feels almost giddy with the recognition. _Like the queen in Alice and Wonderland painted her roses._ The bright color contrasts beautifully on the canvas and he takes it off the wall to look at it more closely. Sitting there on the top stair, Paul gives a disbelieving smile. 

Color. 

His world has _color._

A gun is cocked behind his head. _“What the hell are you doing in our house?”_

Rick's son. Clearly. 

Paul already likes these people.

The cavalry arrives and Paul doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. The spark catching fire in his veins makes it pretty obvious. Daryl takes his place heading the charge and behind him are two more men and a woman. Five guns are pointed at him this time and this...isn't quite a record but it's up there. Rick rushes out, explaining the situation to the group with a reassuring tone. They lower hesitantly. 

Through it all, Paul can't take his eyes off Daryl; Daryl never looks away. 

They sit around a kitchen table with Paul at the head. Rick and the sword-carrying Michonne sit beside him. His son, Carl, sits behind Michonne. The couple of newcomers sit at the other end, while an imposing redhead stares, cross-armed. The guns, at least, remain unused on the table. 

He can feel Daryl prowling with impatience. It's weird. His skin itches with the urge to acknowledge Daryl. Just being in the same room sends a spark through him, like a charge of energy is passing through him and he's just riding the electric current. He has no idea if it's affecting Daryl the same way. He can't dwell on it. He can't. He's here for a reason. He can't forget that. 

“How'd you get out?” 

“One guard can't cover two exits or third floor windows, knots untie and locks get picked.” Paul shrugs, though he can see the uncomfortable shift from the others at the table. “Entropy comes from order.”

“Right,” Daryl rasps abruptly. The first word he's said since Paul showed up. 

Paul tells himself not to stare. Their eyes connect and it's intensely difficult to look away. Every cell in his body notices the thrum that's running through him. Like an instinctual pull, it's irrationally easy to follow and that's a good enough reason not to get lost in it. Rick looks at Daryl too and leans back. He seems almost surprised.

The distraction gives Paul a chance to change the subject. “I checked out your arsenal.”

“You're well-equipped, but your provisions are low. Very low for the amount of people you have. Fifty-four?” Paul guesses, looking at Rick.

“More than that,” the woman behind him – Maggie - drawls.

Paul nods slowly. 

He recognizes the threat for what it is. _Don't under-estimate us. You'll regret it._

“Well, I appreciate the cookie. My compliments to the chef.”

“She ain't here,” Daryl cuts in, leaning closer. It's meant to look cold and threatening, Daryl looming over him on his left. He's distrustful for what's probably good reason and Paul knows he'll have to change that. For Daryl and for everyone else. Despite the charge that runs through him, Paul keeps his eyes set on Daryl and turns toward him to speak directly. 

“Look, we got off to a bad start but we're on the same side. The living side.” 

He shares a glance with Rick before returning his attention to Daryl. 

“You and Rick had every reason to leave me out there but you didn't. I'm from a place that's a lot like this one. Part of my job is searching out other settlements to trade with. I took your truck because my community needs things and both of you looked like trouble.” He meets Rick's eyes, looks over at all of them for a brief period of time. He's genuine when he admits, “I was wrong. You're good people. And this is a good place. I think our communities may be in a position to help each other.” 

This is what he knows, spreading an olive branch out to others and aligning the masses. Paul's given this talk more than once and he's good at what he does. He knows how to spread the seeds of intrigue and grow hope in what would otherwise be barren soil. You could argue it's a little naive but Paul believes in what he says. He likes to think that makes it true. 

“Tell us why we should believe you,” Rick says, appropriately skeptical. 

_Well, I am his soulmate,_ Paul thinks, but something tells him that Daryl would rather eat his gun than hear him say it out loud. 

“I'll show you. If we take a car, I can take you back home in a day, and you can all see for yourselves who we are and what we have to offer.” 

“Wait,” Maggie interrupts and leans over the table to make sure she's hearing him properly. “Wait, you're looking for more settlements. You mean you're already trading with other groups?”

Paul smiles knowingly at all of them.

_“Your world's about to get a whole lot bigger.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is shorter than I wanted it to be? But I really want to keep POV consistent and this just fit better with the flow I'm going for. 
> 
> I'm hoping to update once a week but don't quote me on it.
> 
> Anywho. Love you all and thanks so much for the amazing response. Hope you enjoy!


	4. been dreaming of blue skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They enter a mansion surrounded by trailers and, of course, they meet a prick with all of the lordliness you'd expect from anyone livin' like this.

Whatever happened before, Daryl can't help but feel relieved when Rick doesn't take this asshole at face value. Underneath that veneer of confidence, Rick's still not sure about him. He's still a stranger, could be a thousand lies hidden under that hat. For all they knew, this could be another Terminus, not that that kind of hell came around often but...can't afford to trust anyone that way. They can't afford not to look twice at him. Not anymore. Rick knows all of this, acknowledges it with a nod in Daryl's direction. 

It's a relief. Mostly because Daryl can't trust his instincts anymore. Not when every inch of him wants to reach out and touch the man. Paul – Jesus, whatever the fuck he calls himself - sits in that kitchen, laughing to himself and all Daryl wants to do is grab him. He can't be sure what he'd do if he actually got his hands on him. Beat him senseless? Hold on and breathe in the sunlight? 

All Daryl knows is he's lookin' at Paul like a man dyin' of thirst does a glass of water and that just ain't....ain't the way this shit is supposed to go.

Daryl rolls around every small indiscretion, every point at which it seemed like the man was nothing but what he first thought: a liar, a thief, a prick. Then his mind catches on a loop of the moments he keeps trying to forget: the curve of his lips as he smiles around a threat, wide teal-blue eyes glinting up at him as he asks if he's gonna shoot him, a gun in his face that could have easily been the end but saves his life instead. 

Daryl knows he ain't right, not really. Everything's twisted. It's like he's been turned inside out, like he's been set on fire from the inside and the flames just keep spreadin' out of him beyond his control. And it just keeps getting worse.

It's not enough to keep eyes on him when they're in the same room. Daryl can sense the prick _everywhere_. Paul walks in and out of the house, helping them pack up the RV, and every inch of him thinks **_follow_**. He hears Paul talking with Michonne, a quiet back and forth that Daryl can't even sort out, and there's shivers running down his neck. Too long since he's seen the back of the leather duster and Daryl silently searches, wants to start pacing around and hoping he might catch a glimpse. 

When he's not quick enough to turn his head away and Paul catches his eye, there's a shock of warmth that surges through his bloodstream. Daryl sees Paul stop mid-step with a look of surprise and Daryl can feel the heat rising in his face. The long haired man's lips quirk before Daryl buries himself in the engine of the RV. 

It's practically impossible to ignore. 

Still. 

Ain't like he's gonna do anything about it, for Christ's sake. 

By the time Daryl can concentrate enough to finish checking the engine, there's a line of sweat on his brow that has nothing to do with manual labor. He's twitchy and just irritated enough to snap his head away as Denise approaches. She doesn't flinch. Instead, he sees her hand out of the corner of his eye, holding out a brown plastic-wrapped disk that looks like the underside of a barn.

“Here,” she says, holding it even closer to him, “Homemade oat cake, complex carbohydrates and omega-3s.”

Daryl shakes his head and keeps himself ducked under the hood. 

“Nah, I'm good. We're gonna make a pit stop. I'll pick up something then.” 

“...Like rabies?” Denise asks innocently. 

Daryl reluctantly turns glare back at her. However, the moment Denise sees his face, he regrets it. She takes a long look at him, taking in the flush in his complexion and the moisture beading at his brow. He can see her moving from lecturing to concern and she tilts her head. Daryl rubs his drenched forehead with his equally sweaty bicep before looking back at the engine. Denise leans closer to the RV, looking at his face under the fringe hanging over his eyes. 

“Daryl...are you alright?” 

“M'fine,” Daryl grunts. “It's nothin'.”

“Okay...” Denise crosses her arms, sounding skeptical. “And if it weren't – _hypothetically_ – nothing?”

“That's not...” Daryl rolls his eyes. “I mean it, ain't nothin'. Drop it.” 

“Daryl, you're sweating...”

“Yeah, s'hot and I'm workin'.” 

“You look like you just ran a marathon.” 

Daryl sighs irritably, turning around to face her. 'I said I'm fine, didn't I?” 

Denise still looks unconvinced but she at least steps back and gives him room to breathe. She looks down at the oat cake in her hands, biting her lip. She doesn't move into his space again but nudges him with the food. Daryl reluctantly looks between her and the oat cake being shoved at him. 

“Take the oat cake at least?” Denise offers. 

“Is this 'cause I tried to get you that stuff?” Ain't nobody that owes him that. Besides, wasn't all that much anyway to get some vending machine tipped over. Ain't like she and Tara would be splittin' a soda before Tara leaves. Daryl doesn't want some kind of reward for somethin' he couldn't even come through with. 

“Yeah.” There's a softness to her tone. Something quiet, like a private joke she's sharing with herself. “And you remind me of someone I used to know.”

'Well...I hope it tastes better than it looks,” Daryl scoffs. “'Cause it looks like shit.”

“Shit's still better than roadkill.” Denise winces and Daryl huffs a laugh, turning back to the engine. 

“Okay, maybe -- just eat it.”

-x- 

It ain't hard to distract himself with the passing trees out the window of the RV. The road is quiet, a few shamblers on the side of the road raising their disfigured heads at they drive past but it doesn't look like anything suspicious. No cars following them, no flares or gunshots, no eyes they could see yet. It seems safe but Daryl's gonna make certain. He ain't about to let his guard down, not 'til he knows it won't all go to shit. 

The distraction works fine until he hears Abraham and Glenn talking. They lean close to talk without disturbing Maggie, who hasn't woken since the engine started rumbling. Abraham's disbelief resonates through the conversation, like he just doesn't get how things are for the two of them, Maggie and Glenn. If anybody deserves to be selfish, if anybody could make somethin' good grow out of the shit they've been piled with... 

_“We're trying to build something, me and her,”_ Glenn says. 

He sounds so damn hopeful. 

Feels wrong hearing something so high-flown when the world's like it is. 

Then again, maybe that's the only way things'll ever sound like they used to for the two of 'em. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Paul lookin' over at him every once in a while. They're small, quiet glances that only happen after he checks to front window, seein' if they're any closer to wherever the hell he's takin' them. Like he can't help himself. Like he wants to say something. Daryl doesn't look back. 

“Hey, Rick, what's going on?” Daryl calls out as he feels the brakes on the RV start to slow them down.

“Got a crash ahead. Looks like it just happened.”

Of course, this asshole just keeps pullin' out all the stops. Too Goddamn convenient, a crash that has all of them out of the RV, circled around some empty building. Daryl grits his teeth, mutters a curse as everyone presses their noses to the windows to see what's outside. Like they ain't about to be played all over again. _Shit._

“That's one of ours,” Paul says, making his way over to the door. 

Daryl tosses his head, looks at Rick in the rearview mirror. 

Rick gives him a silent nod. 

The RV stops and Paul hustles out and over to the wreck. He's good, the anxiety and the frantic swing of that stupid coat making it seem like he's just as surprised as the rest of them. The perfect opportunity to catch them off guard. The perfect time to get them vulnerable and away from home. The timing is too on the nose and some perfect pink mouth all curled into a frown ain't gonna be enough to convince them all. Won't be enough to convince _him._

“I know how it looks, but I'll play it out.” Paul looks around, still frantic and acting like it's ass some big decision he has to make. With Rick's colt still on him, the asshole holds out a pleading hand, “Can I borrow a gun?” 

“Nah,” Daryl refuses and points to the ground where he sees several sets of footprints. “We got tracks right here.” 

The tracks clearly lead into the building. One of them looks bloodier than the rest, their gait sloppier like something's gone wrong with a leg. Would fit, if there was a wreck with his people...Daryl looks between the tracks and the entrance. Daryl prides himself on being able to call bullshit pretty well but this...this ain't something Daryl feels any sort of sure about. The pit in his gut becomes a cavern as he paces with frustration, looking between Rick and Paul for some kind of anchor as things progress. 

Rick's knocks go unanswered.

“We movin' in or what?” Abraham asks with impatience.

“How do we know this ain't firecrackers in a trash can?” Daryl sneers, coming to stand by Rick's side. 

Paul throws up his hands. _“You don't.”_

“We'll get your people,” Rick acquiesces, “but you're staying here with one of us.” 

Paul looks back at Michonne, who nods her nods her head, unrelenting. “That's the deal.”

 _Better deal than you coulda gotten,_ Daryl thinks, thumbing the handle of his knife. 

Paul lets himself be handcuffed, his eyes still glued to the glass entrance. Whatever annoyance that could be seen in his face had long bled over into worry. He looks at Daryl only once, his hands pulled behind his back as he leans over. Daryl shifts uncomfortably as their eyes meet and his Goddamn heart pounds against the inside of his ribcage like a battering ram.

“Just hurry,” Paul says softly. 

Daryl doesn't say anything, just stares back stoically in a way he hopes gives nothing away. 

Maggie agrees to shoot if Rick gives the order. Daryl knows she will, knows that beneath Glenn's idealism for the new world is Maggie's endurance for the worst of it all. That's the reason his family is stronger than anything some piss-ant group might have in store for them. The reason they will make it, the reason they've all made it this far. She'll do what she has to because she has to, no more and no less. 

This is the way it has to be now and if Paul's lying, ain't nothing to it. 

And If the thought of him being at the end of Maggie's revolver leaves his legs feeling heavy and his stomach feeling coiled, so be it. 

Daryl thinks about Rick's words down in the basement. 

_Yeah._

_We'll see, alright._

-x- 

It's not that Daryl wants to be right. It should be a Goddamn relief, watching the flowy-haired prick lead them ahead. To an actual fucking community. To cows and chickens and crops. To the fuckin' promised land. He sees Rick and Michonne eyeing it all, sees Glenn and Abraham get lost in the prosperity that made Alexandria stretching their rations feel like another world. He sees it. He sees the hope in their eyes and listens to Paul wax some poetic about babies being born. He wants that for all of 'em. 

It just...ain't likely. The world ain't done with them, never lets them have a break – not without a cost. There's a lot of shit they don't know about but too much they need to turn their noses up at it. They need this. Daryl knows Paul sees it, has to see the edge of Rick's temper the longer they're stuck sittin' on their thumbs.

They enter a mansion surrounded by trailers and, of course, they meet a prick with all of the lordliness you'd expect from anyone livin' like this. 

Gregory treats them like they're dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. Daryl's used to it, has known that look by heart from the time he was young. A middle-age woman with thick-framed glasses and pursed lips looking him and his brother up and down as she asks where their parents are. The manager at the gas-n-sip shoving him out the door, telling him no Dixon was coming anywhere near his store after his brother held a gun to his head for a pack of cigarettes and a Snickers bar. Gregory tells them to go get cleaned up, don't wanna dirty up his house with their second-class sweat. 

Leave it to a place like this to put on airs after the world's gone to shit. 

Rick sends Maggie in to negotiate while the some of them clean off. Daryl and Abraham are the first to come back down. Ain't much to be done about the sweat pooling at Daryl's temples; he can feel himself itching at the seams the same way he felt earlier in front of the engine. Daryl chews on his thumbnail as he paces by the front door. 

“How long do you think Rick and Michonne been ugging bumplies?” Abraham says from where he sits at the corner of the room. The gossip makes the corners of Abraham's red mustache twitch and he looks curiously up at Daryl.

Daryl gives half-hearted shrug. “I dunno.” 

Abraham stands up, walks over to him. Daryl sees him contemplating, like he's been doing all day. The man ain't exactly scared of speaking his mind though and, whatever it is he's thinkin' about, it ain't just this place. Daryl meets him half-way, wondering what he might have missed 

“You ever think about it?” Abraham asks. “Settling down?”

Daryl's throat suddenly feels thick. 

'Course, that would be a question for him. It ain't like he's blind. Not like he can't see it, the way everyone's settled into Alexandria like they're pairing off to repopulate the planet or some shit. Hell, Daryl knows some of the people he's met would rather spend the rest of their time rippin' off somebody else's clothes than face the fact that the world has gone to shit. 

It just ain't never been something he had. Wasn't like people were linin' up to settle for someone like him, wasn't like he ever stopped being a piece of shit long enough to find anything close to it. Somethin' like that wasn't meant for someone like him. Only thing would come out of it would be a lot of pain. For him and them. 

Daryl looks hard at Abraham, suddenly sure the man had to have seen- 

But, nah, not even a hint of recognition behind his eyes. 

The same mildly curious look stays on Abraham's face as Daryl shakes his head and averts his eyes. “You think shit's settled?”

 _“Oh.”_

There it was, that voice.

At the bottom of the stairs, Daryl could see Paul had changed out of his old clothes. His gloves are gone and his hair is loose from the gray beanie, falling freely over his shoulders. Instead of the leather duster and body warmer, he's wearing a white shirt that makes him look even more pristine than before. Paul looks sheepish, wringing his hands in front of him. “Sorry, I didn't realize anyone was down here yet.” 

“Only so much some of us can do to look pretty,” Abraham quips from beside him. 

Daryl gives a grunt of agreement and Paul smiles. 

Daryl had forgotten about that smile, the way it lit up his face all-genuine and amused laughter showing through like light through a window. There's shivers still running up and down his shoulders but just being this close – closer still as Paul walks forward to look around the small endtable in front of them and at the office door – leaves a warm, steady feeling warming over Daryl. 

“I take it Gregory hasn't come out yet.” 

“Nah.” Daryl shakes his head. “Ain't left his ivory tower apparently.” 

The corner of Paul's lips twitch. “You are...more right than you know. Still, he's built this place into what it is and everyone here trusts him. If anyone can arrange food coming into your community, it's going to be him.”

“Right,” Daryl scoffs. 

There it is, the stand off. He meets Paul's eyes in a challenge now, feeling a rise of cynicism in his chest and holding on to it. There's nothin' that says he's going to help any of them – not the numbers of this place, not this house and its fancy paintings and not the sneer he could see on Gregory's face. Paul's face drops and he looks like wants to disagree. All that comes out is a sigh. 

Paul shakes his head and goes to sit down on one of the couches. 

“Well...” Abraham eyes the two of them before looking up the stairs where they can hear the echoes of footsteps, “I'm gonna see what's takin' them so long to fluff their formals.”

Abraham bustles up the stairs. Every step he takes is a loud slap against the wood that echoes in the quiet of the room. Loud to enough to give them their privacy or whatever. Not like it matters. It's not enough time to say much and Paul ain't even looking in his direction anymore. _Still..._

Cautiously, Daryl steps toward him.

“You really think he's gonna?” Daryl asks after the silence has drawn too long. 

“I wouldn't have brought you here if I didn't.” 

It's said softly, so quietly it's nearly a whisper between them. 

Daryl doubts a lot of things, doesn't think much of this place and the grand little show he can see being put on. But he doesn't doubt Paul's word. He's been honest since he stole their shit and sent it down to the bottom of the lake. He's proven that he ain't trying to pull anything. Not anymore. Daryl nods, a quick jerk of the head to show he believes him. 

“Daryl,” Paul says and the tone makes Daryl freeze. 

Fuck no. He can't pull this shit, not now. This ain't the time for that. They ain't...they ain't gonna do this. Not now, not ever if Daryl could help it. It feels like a car crash about to happen, no time to swerve out of the way before it all hits him. 

“We should talk about-” 

His saving grace is multiple sets of footsteps on the stairs, voices mulling over one another as Maggie leads the charge. 

_Another time_ , Paul communicates with his gaze. 

Daryl pretends not to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wait. I just re-wrote this damn thing so. many. times. 
> 
> I had to force myself to post _this_ version because I think I could spend another week editing it (and probably should). 
> 
> Anywho, I'll try(?) to have timely updates but, dear God, this most likely won't be my average length.
> 
> Love and appreciate you all, especially those of you that are leaving those ridiculously complimentary reviews. I am not worthy! 
> 
> \- Amy


	5. the sun is weak on the gun gray street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For someone that talks so damn much, ya ain't saying shit,” Daryl grouses and finally flicks his cigarette to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning of some mentions of child abuse, systemic abuse in the foster care system, ect -- nothing explicit but enough to warrant some discretion.

Paul didn't think it was possible but he was going to miss the group home. The way Marie, his newest social worker, had treated the Rattrays like they were doing him some big favor, taking away the only constant he'd had for two years, the second group home he'd been transferred to...When he protested, said he didn't want to leave, Marie's kind smile morphed into a grimace. 

“Paul, you can't stay here,” she said, leaning over her desk to touch his hand.

Paul was only twelve but he knew that tone when he heard it. Firm, but with that touch of sadness that said no matter how hopeless it might seem, things weren't about to get better. Paul looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes. 

“Please, I don't-I don't like them. I just want to stay!”

A heavy sigh. “Paul-”

“No! I'll take care of the other kids and I'll take on extra chores and-”

“Paul.”

 _“I'll behave, just, please...”_ Paul begged.

“Paul!” Marie shouted. She looked just as exhausted as Paul felt. 

“You don't have a choice. You can't stay here even if we wanted you to. It doesn't matter. You're a burden on this place, you understand? These people are willing to take you on and you're almost a teenager...honey, we can't afford to say no. You can't afford to say no.”

Paul found it hard to swallow, a lump swollen in his throat as he felt tears burn the back of his eyes. He blinked them away, scraped his tongue against his teeth until he tasted blood. He looked at Marie, her gray eyes crinkling with her falsely reassuring smile, and nodded. 

“I understand.”

The younger kids, the ones that hadn't been in the system long, they all still looked at foster homes like they were their golden ticket. Wonka fantasies aside, Paul was not one of those kids. Not anymore. He was seven when he entered his first group home, a small green house on the corner of 25th and Vine. He'd passed by it when he'd walked to school before, not far from his old house...even if he would never see her again. 

It was familiar. 

Until it wasn't. 

He'd been through four different foster homes since then. This was his second group home. 

Those foster homes weren't as bad as some, he'd heard but it was never really comfortable. His first foster home had the same amount of kids he usually shared rooms with in a bedroom half the size, another only had food in the cupboards when his old social worker would visit. The worst was a large, spacious house with a boy only a few years older than him. A boy that was, he was repeatedly reminded, their real child and had no interest in sharing his parents. 

After that, they transferred him here. 

Sure, there were point systems and apathetic shift monitors and he was hungrier than he should have been but this was the longest he'd stayed anywhere. He was so _tired_ of new homes. He was tired of new people. He just...he wanted to stay. He wanted to see the same faces every day. He wanted to know what he was going to wake up to. 

There was nothing he could do but leave and not look back.

He was a burden. 

They didn't _want_ him here. 

He packed a trash bag with the only things that belonged to him: a gray hoodie, a toothbrush, a bag of half-eaten Skittles, and a beat up paperback, _Gulliver's Travels._

–x-

It occurs to Paul that he isn't sure how soulmates are supposed to work outside of badly-written romance novels. He's never met a pair of soulmates. He's not sure what he'd ask them if he did. Every question feels childish and out of place, things he should have learned a long time ago. How the hell do you have a soulmate for a lifetime when your longest relationship spans three months? 

He knows the stories, what they say having a soulmate will be like. They're supposed to know what you're thinking before you've even thought of it. They're supposed welcome you where no one else will. They're supposed to want you when no one else does. _What a stupid idea,_ Paul had always thought. Here he is now, kicking it around like it was an actual possibility. 

Paul tries not to dwell on it.

He tries to keep his mind focused on Hilltop and Alexandria and the Saviors because that's all that's going on around him, Gregory with a knife in his stomach and Rick, covered in blood and still threatening to spill more. It doesn't work. Not with glimpses of Daryl at the corner of his eyes. The sensation has dialed down, he notices, from that fever-like flames licking under his skin into something more like radiated heat. Like he's standing directly in front of a fireplace. It's not painful – the exact opposite, really – but it's definitely a little uncomfortable. And distracting. Really distracting.

So, instead, Paul makes a list of things he does know about his soulmate. 

One. Daryl is intelligently quiet when he wants to be. 

Not that he couldn't make himself heard – shouts of _“So long, ya prick!”_ and _“We've come to a conclusion, asshole!”_ still ring like laughter in his ears – but there's a lot said in the silence. Daryl wasn't about to relieve tension with social graces or comments about the weather. Unlike Paul, Daryl never spoke unless he had something to say. He's the kind of person, Paul knew with certainty, that was important to listen to. 

Two. Daryl is going to trust him _eventually._

Well, maybe that's his optimism talking. But he's starting to see it. Paul could see Daryl was as unsettled as Paul felt, but he was still there, wavering back and forth, pacing and watching and waiting only to see that there was nothing left to hide. Nothing to do but stop and see how things played out and now...now, he was looking at _Jesus,_ looking for answers and seeing he could be trusted. 

At the least, it's a start. 

Lastly, and most importantly, Daryl is going to protect his people no matter the cost. 

It's not like Paul expects anything different, really, given how hard they fought for that truck, how guarded his group was, and how they communicated with efficiency and complete trust in one another. They were too interwoven for anything else; this was how they survived. But when when the others launched at the prospect of food, Daryl was still at the edges, eying the Hilltop like it might turn on them at any moment. But when the opportunity to bargain came? Daryl was the first to stand up and say they'd take care of it, like it was nothing if it put food on the table for his group. They were good people but, more than that, Daryl, his soulmate, was a good person doing everything he could to protect those people. 

Alexandria itself, Paul thinks, shows no uncertainty. They're all ego, and it's almost contagious in the confidence with which they pave their path forward. They're so sure of themselves, where they've been and what they've done. No fear for what they were going to do. 

They load half of what Hilltop has into their RV and Paul finds it hard not to be charmed by them. Seeing Daryl dive back into the RV, Paul makes a snap decision. He plucks a crate from a nearby picnic table and sidles up to Rick, matching his pace. He puts on his best, most casual air as they walk together. Rick's gaze narrows on him. 

“Got room for one more, right?”

Rick raises an eyebrow and Paul shrugs.

“I mean, we're talking about righting the world here,” Paul says and, as if in afterthought, adds, _“Plus, you still have my knives.”_

He hears a huff of amusement behind his back and, before he knows it, they're gathered in the large church Paul had only once seen the outside of. 

The stained glass windows provide a ring of bright color around Rick, who stands tall in front of the pulpit. Paul admires it, taking in the blues and greens while sitting off to the side. He thinks that for all Rick is doing for his community (and for Hilltop), it makes a strangely evocative image. Rick Grimes, the man that hours ago was kissing the top of his child's head, preaching war in a church. Their eyes follow him too, taking it all in. Some of his followers even nod as though hearing gospel. 

Paul listens to Rick convince Alexandria of the deal they've made with Hilltop and the threat the Saviors pose and, when all is said and done, there's only one protest, quelled under a decision already made. Daryl, he notes, stays silent through all of it. 

Yeah, Paul knows a few things about Daryl. 

No matter the cost. 

–x-

It's not a surprise when the meeting disperses and Daryl manages to slip out without talking to a single person. He's quite possibly the most reserved human being Paul has ever met when he's not actively fighting something or someone. On the other hand...Paul suspects that it might just be because of him. 

As everyone slowly disperses and Rick starts talking to Michonne, Paul hauls himself to his feet and follows in the direction Daryl went.

Alexandria is actually pretty large, Paul realizes. He feels surrounded by the cookie cutter houses. It's also expanding, as Michonne had told him earlier since they'd had a brush with a large hoard that had taken down a church tower. Now, as he tries to keep up with Daryl, who has to be at least twenty feet ahead of him by now, it feels even larger. 

_You've got to be kidding me,_ Paul thinks, suddenly missing Hilltop's easily scalable trailers. 

Then, Paul sees Daryl's broad shoulders disappear between some of the nearby houses. 

Paul has a moment's hesitation before he takes off in a sprint. Paul tries not to make too much noise, rounding the corner in a breeze of steps. The tightness in his chest releases when he finds Daryl leaning up against the siding of one of the houses, a cigarette in one hand and digging in his pocket with the other. Daryl pulls out a lighter and Paul could see the moment he spotted him, his narrow eyes flitting away and his mouth twisting into a thin line. He puts the cigarette between his lips as Paul approaches, bringing the light up to his mouth as he cups a hand around it. He shoves he lighter back in and looks away, anywhere but at Paul. 

“Yer followin' me,” Daryl accuses on an exhale. “Whaddya want?” 

_To be that cigarette,_ Paul wants to quip but is wise enough to keep to hilmself. 

For a brief moment, he wonders if the look on Daryl's face would be worth getting punched. He shouldn't be so intrigued about the prospect. There's just something about Daryl. His surly nature, his defensive resolve, something sharp in his eyes that says he knows exactly what you're about. Something there that Paul wants to see more of. Truth be told, soulmate or not, Paul likes him already. 

Those shoulders and arms – _Jesus Christ,_ those arms – don't hurt either.

Paul smiles, purposefully keeping his eyes on Daryl's face even though he refuses to look at him. “I was hoping we could talk.” 

Daryl makes a noise that lets Paul know he's heard him but he isn't particularly enthusiastic about it. 

“I know we got off on the wrong foot-” Again, Daryl lets out a noise, this time closer to a scoff. Paul continues as though he hasn't heard anything. “-but I really do appreciate what your community is doing. For Hilltop, after what they've been through, they needed this as much as you did. We all do, so, thank you.” 

Daryl shifts, looking shy and uncomfortable at the praise. Paul sees his eyes flicker in his direction before staying on the ground at his feet. Daryl takes an anxious drag of his cigarette before mumbling, “Y'should thank Rick, not me.” 

“I already have,” Paul clarifies, which is partially true. “I just wanted to say it to you, too.”

“Yeah, well, ain't gotta.”

Paul tilts his head and smiles when he catches Daryl's eye again. “Maybe that's why I said I _wanted_ to.”

Daryl snorts and shakes his head. He still won't look him in the eye, still keeps himself turned half away, and Paul can see some lingering curiosity behind his embarrassment. He hasn't told him to get lost yet, just planted himself next to house and smoked like he had nowhere else to be. That had to be something, right? If he didn't want him here, he would have said something. He had first-hand proof of that yesterday. 

Maybe that wasn't the best experience to lead with. 

“If it helps, I really am sorry.” 

Daryl's face twists in confusion. “About what?” 

“About the truck?” Paul suggests before reluctantly adding, “And for giving you and Rick the, uh, run around?” 

“Whatever, man.” 

“I was just trying to bring food back to my community. You two...well, you struck me as more of the loner type.” 

The Savior type. 

Paul doesn't want to think about that. He did what he did, was ready to take what he needed from two strangers that might have been taking from Hilltop. That was then and, if he hadn't, he wouldn't have ended up here. Fate, Paul thinks, and for the first time it feels more comforting than beyond comprehension. 

“I just wanted to clear the air before we talked.” 

“For someone that talks so damn much, ya ain't saying shit,” Daryl grouses and finally flicks his cigarette to the ground.

Paul knows impatience when he sees it. Feels some it too, trying to make the words come out less gracelessly than they do in his head. He knows the conversation has to be had. He just hates that there's no easy way to say it. No euphemisms, no jokes, no making it about the big picture. Just...he and Daryl. 

“So, we're soulmates.”

There is a long uneasy silence that follows. As a rule, Paul can make small talk fairly easily – a joke, a quick compliment, a useless conversation about the weather, Paul can make a silence reasonably less awkward if he really wants to – but he's pretty certain there's no saving this one. Not if the way Daryl is glaring at the wall is any indication. The fact is this entire conversation feels balanced on the edge of a knife. 

“And?” Daryl asks finally, before turning his scowl on Paul. _“The hell's it matter?”_

Paul frowns. 

He's not entirely sure what he was expecting. A _conversation,_ he guesses but wants to roll his eyes when he thinks about the small idealistic part of him that thought maybe, just maybe- fuck, what is he doing? He's really trying to stay practical about this. Is this just a giant waste of time? Did he really just try to approach a stranger with “we're soulmates”? The warmth in his skin pitches up, little shocks of heat that are now more frustrating than encouraging. 

“I'm just saying we should have a conversation about what to do.”

Daryl stays silent.

“I am right, aren't I? I'm not the only one feeling like I'm standing next to a radiator, right?” Paul raises an eyebrow. “Because I feel like that would be even weirder at this point.” 

“Don't.” Daryl's voice sounds like gravel, sharp but with a determined edge. 

“Are we...not gonna talk about it? Is that what we're doing?” 

“Ain't nothin' to talk about,” Daryl snaps back, only to turn his head away again. 

“Really?” Paul laughs in disbelief, his lips curling sardonically. He's not sure if he's laughing at Daryl or himself or the universe. He can't help himself. “Wanna tell me what color my eyes are then? I've always wanted to know.”

_“Fuck you.”_

Daryl moves to leave and gets a few few ahead before Paul drags behind, feeling weary. He stops before Daryl hits the end of the space between the houses, trying and failing not to be frustrated with this whole thing. He calls out Daryl's name once, twice before getting a little louder. 

“Daryl, stop!” 

Oddly enough, he does. 

Daryl stops walking, not turning around to look back at him but keeping completely still, waiting for the last of what Paul has to say. A part of him – a very large, _demanding_ part of him - wishes Daryl would just look at him. Another part of him finds the words come out easier without the derisive scowl reminding him of Daryl's contempt. “You're seriously suggesting we don't even acknowledge this.” 

“Yeah,” is all that he hears, a low breath of reply. 

_One last attempt._

If Daryl doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't want this, then there isn't anything he can do. But he's going to try. 

At least he'd be able to say he tried. 

“Look, I know this might not be ideal and this probably isn't what you pictured.” For a moment, Paul wants to tell Daryl he's sorry and he wants to shake himself. What is he going to apologize for? Being a thief? Or a man? He's not sorry for either of those things, gave up on shame a long time ago. He's not even sure that any one of these things actually matters to Daryl. Doesn't know if it's _him_ or _them_ or _soulmates_ that has Daryl ready to bolt. He doesn't know why this has turned so sour; the idealism he had this morning feels lifetimes away now. 

“I don't know what you've been through or if you even care about soulmates at all. I just...I don't think we should ignore this and pretend like it never happened. And I don't think you want to leave it like this either.” 

This, it seems, hits Daryl in all the wrong ways.

Daryl turns around almost instantly, furious as he pushes himself into Paul's space. His face is still twisted beyond a scowl, this time curling into a sneer as he spits, “There ain't some damn fairy tale where you and I walk off into the sunset, man. You pretendin' like you know me? Ya don't! Some magical soulmate bullshit don't mean _shit_ about me. Fate ain't here to tell me what I want. I don't know ya, don't like ya.” 

So close, he could see Daryl's blue eyes more clearly than ever. Paul braces himself for whatever Daryl will say next. 

“I don't want anything to do with ya – hell, if it were up to me, you'da been _left_ out there.”

The air between them, once warm with electricity, seems to freeze. He can still feel it, the heat from Daryl's proximity, the urge to press his arms around Daryl's shoulders and hold, but it stings with bitterness. The absurdity of this conversation sinks into a venomous pit in his chest. _What the hell was he thinking?_

“Right,” Paul accepts, devoid of any emotion. He nods stiffly. Pulls himself backward and inward. “I understand.” 

The urge to run is familiar but has never been as desperate. He's never been good at this anyway, never been good at letting people in; he's not sure why he was so receptive to trying it now. Like he could have something real, like he could have something permanent. Paul can't think about permanence while his skin burns with want and the crack in his chest splits him deeper. 

“I'm sorry for wasting your time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I mentioned on my Tumblr this chapter was getting out of hand word-count wise, so I'm splitting it into two and will hopefully post the next chapter soon. I have half of it finished and can split my time a little easier that way. Otherwise, hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! 
> 
> \- Amy


	6. out of an orange-colored sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He almost misses the black and white of his old world.

Paul is thankful that the streets are mostly clear when he reappears from between the houses. People have gone back to their homes, he assumes, the meeting long over and the sun setting in the sky overhead. Reds, oranges, and splashes of the most intense golds he's ever seen are painted above him, taunting him as he walks away. He almost misses the black and white of his old world. In that world, at least, he knew how to make run for it. Knew how to isolate himself.

It's different now. 

Paul feels like he's covered in itching powder, his skin prickling with irritation and heat. Worse, he can still feel Daryl, like a rope around his chest that grows tighter with every step he takes. Like he might burst if he steps too far. It's got to be psychological, Paul thinks because as far as he knows, no one's ever died from walking away from their soulmate. 

It doesn't matter though; Paul doesn't think he could stop walking now if he wanted to. 

_Just keep moving, it doesn't matter if you just keep moving._

_It doesn't matter._

His thoughts make him want to shake himself. What was he thinking, trying something like that? 

“Um....Jesus?” A voice behind him calls. 

Paul looks over his shoulder to see a young woman with blonde hair and glasses smiling meekly at him. He doesn't remember meeting her, has barely had time to meet anyone outside of the group that questioned him in Rick's kitchen, but she looks friendly enough. She approaches quietly, still looking unsure. He doesn't exactly blame her; every inch of him wants to leave and he probably looks insane by now, running around a neighborhood with no real direction but away. 

“Hey,” she says as a way of greeting and waves awkwardly. “I'm Denise. Rick wanted me to come show you where you're staying.”

“Right,” Paul lets out a breath, tries to ground himself even as Denise watches him curiously. “Sure, thank you.”

“Unless you need to...” She trails off awkwardly.

“No.” Paul shakes his head, smiling in away he hoped was believable. “Lead the way.” 

-x- 

“I'm getting...a whole house?” Paul asks, feeling overwhelmed by the two story home. 

He hovers in the doorway, can't seem to stop himself from looking over every inch of the house. Yeah, maybe it wasn't Barrington house - he could almost hear Gregory bemoaning Alexandria's lack of historical value, the absence of french molding around the doors and windows – but the clean white walls and gleaming silver appliances made the house look like it was fresh from the days before roamers and FEMA trailers. 

It's a good distraction from the gnawing in his chest. 

He throws himself into it, ducking his head to take in the high ceilings and open floorplan. 

“I can't believe how much space you have for so few people.” 

Denise doesn't seem bothered by Paul's wide-eyed inspection, instead shyly motioning to the window where he could see a similar house next door. “Oh, yeah, yours is the one next to mine – well, mine and Tara's, Tara my, uh, girlfriend – but it has a bed and everything. There's plenty of empty houses, of course. Otherwise you'd be bunking down with someone else.”

“Anything will be fine. Honestly, it would be the first time I've had a house of my own even before the end of the world.”

Paul doesn't think he ever really stayed in a place this big without anyone else, period. He'd spent too much time traveling, too much time in small, cramped apartments with six or seven other people, sleeping on people's couches, and, when he was younger, in group home after group home. It never bothered him; he didn't really need the space, after all. It was an alien concept to think of having a house just for him, even just for one night. 

“Glenn said you guys have a doctor at Hilltop?” Denise asks and, though he can see she's trying not to sound too curious, it's all over her face. Paul nods, raising an eyebrow. Denise elaborates, “I'm a psychiatrist-turned-surgeon, so...it's gotta be nice to know that there's somebody that knows what they're doing around.” 

“It is. He was actually an obstetrician before all this.” Paul smiles at her. “We're all learning new ways to survive now.” 

Paul walks further into the foyer. The room is spacious with a couple of couches, and end table with tiny, thumb-sized figures, and a small shelf of books he made a note to sort through later. Someone lived here, he can see that well enough but Paul knows better than to ask. _Everything is inherited now,_ Paul thinks. Nothing belongs to anyone permanently. 

Still, it was his for the night. 

“I don't know. More people, bigger walls, lots of food. It sounds like you have a good set up there.”

“Well, the grass is always greener.” Paul gestures to the room around him. “Most of Hilltop would give up their rows of trailers for these houses any day.”

“Grass is always greener,” Denise echoes, though she looks a little lost in thought as Paul continues to search around. As he picks up one of the figurines sitting on the endtable, Denise pipes up again. “So, uh, listen. I don't want to pry but is there something going on with Daryl?”

Paul freezes.

God, he hates how even his name sends pricks of heat down the back of his neck. It's not enough that his chest feels like a balloon with a slow leak, not enough that he keeps repeating the conversation over and over again in his mind. He asked to stay the night, he asked to be here where Daryl was, and now he was going to suffer more than one set of consequences for it. He tries to compose himself as he turns his back to Denise. 

“I just, I saw you and him talking and Daryl looked kind of upset and he...well, he's probably not gonna talk about it and I just wanted to see if everything's okay.”

Paul sighs. “Why don't you ask Daryl?” 

“He's already tried to blow me off about it. It's cool, I don't-I'm not trying to get in his business. I'm just worried. He doesn't exactly have a lot of people he talks to.” There's a small breath and Denise adds softly, “I can relate.” 

Paul looks over his shoulder at her. 

Her concern for Daryl is clearly genuine; Paul has learned enough about these people to know they care deeply about each other, Daryl included. However, the idea of giving out Daryl's personal information – even to his friends and loved ones – feels like a dangerous line to cross. It wasn't any of his business, not really, and he can't help what Daryl does and doesn't want to talk about. He's figured that out, at least.

“Denise, I can't really-”

Denise shakes her head. 

“No, really, I get it. Just, if it's something serious?” 

“If it was serious...” Paul trails off, hesitating. _Then he'd do something about it? Then he'd care?_ Fuck, he needs to let this go and now. “I'm sure he'd tell someone.” 

Denise shuffles back, pointing her thumb at the door. “Okay. I'm gonna go but if you need anything...” 

“I will, thank you.” 

–x-

The house is unnaturally quiet that night. It's a far cry from the paper-thin walls Paul has lived with, same with the large comfortable bed underneath him. Everything seems to keep him awake. He tosses back and forth on the too-soft mattress. He feels overheated, stuffy, even though he's already opened a window. He's just not used to this house, these walls, this bed; at least, that's what he tells himself.

The aching burn in his chest swings back and forth in intensity, letting itself be heard and then quieting down only to start again. The pain he can take. The layer of sweat rolling over him leaves him feeling exhausted. Paul ties his hair up haphazardly to get some kind of relief. The fact that it's his soulmate a few houses over, resenting him, only makes things worse. He thinks of the snarl on Daryl's face and the air is knocked from his chest, like he's just fallen down a flight of stairs. It makes him wish he'd never heard the word soulmate. 

Spitefully, Paul hopes Daryl is feeling just as exhausted as he is. 

_No, you don't._

“No, I fucking don't.” Paul groans into his pillow. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “For Christ sake.” 

Instead of taking these couple hours to sleep, he takes some time to fully explore the rest of the house. Despite the largeness of the house, it doesn't take too long. He already knows the master bedroom with its king sized bed and a few dressers that look as though they've just been emptied. There are two more bedrooms – and Paul still has a hard time understanding why someone would need this much space – one of which is a guest bedroom. 

The other bedroom is completely dark when he enters, the overhead light either broken or burnt out. 

Paul clicks on the small table light on the desk and taken the room in. It looks like it's been converted into a home office with a desk, chair, more bookshelves, and a loveseat. Paul can't help but eye the near-empty shelving, hoping there might be something better than what he'd found in living room. A couple of large cookbooks and Reader's Digest compilations made it clear: who ever lived her before weren't exactly well-read. Still, he needs to find something. Something he can busy himself with, something he could get lost in. 

Paul feels disappointment creep over him until, suddenly, he spots a small paperback on the bottom shelf. 

Julius Cesar. 

Huh. 

Slowly, Paul sits and starts to read. 

He's not sure how long he's there, leaning back against the cushions on the couch and getting lost in Cassius and Brutus' manipulative back and forth. He can feel himself growing more and more drowsy, eyes flickering open even as the exhaustion tries to drown him. The last words he reads make Paul shudder.

The enemy increaseth every day;  
We, at the height, are ready to decline.  
There is a tide in the affairs of men,  
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;  
Omitted, all the voyage of their life  
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

Just as exhaustion slips over him, there's a knock at the door. 

-x-

In the dark of the night, they send in teams of mercenaries. It's a good plan and Paul can see with every nod and sharp jerk of his chin that Rick plays general just as well as he does inspirational leader. They know exactly what they need to do and don't hesitate under his orders. Paul sees Daryl only momentarily as he and Rick are practically attached at the hip, Daryl playing his second in the same way he had when they first met. It's a flash of his eyes glancing over the car that leaves Paul clearing his throat and looking out into the trees.

“They'll be quick,” he hears Tara say from the driver's seat.

Paul nods to himself. He doesn't doubt it. 

“And, if they're not, we will be here.” Gabriel, the priest in the front passenger seat, shares a look with Tara. There's something there, some acknowledgment he's making but Paul doesn't have the energy to try to piece it together himself. Tara looks unsettled but the car falls into silence, Craig and Andy mute beside him. Paul isn't complaining, not by a long shot. His nerves are shaken, trying everything not to focus on what's going on beyond their sight.

Tara interrupts the quiet with a soft whisper, “You still a priest?” 

Garbiel doesn't look at her this time, staring straight ahead. “Rick and Carl taught me about guns, other weapons, how to contribute. I'm still a priest.” 

“I lied to my girlfriend this morning,” Tara confesses with a shaky breath. _Oh._ This is Denise's Tara, Paul realizes. How did he not put that together earlier? “I, um-- she caught me thinking about something, so I told her that I loved her. For the first time. That's how I told her, covering something up.” 

Gabriel simply asks, “What were you covering?” 

Tara flinches. 

“That I'd done something like this before...that I didn't like it.” 

The air is crippled by Tara's fear and her disappointment with herself. Paul can't himself. He watches carefully as Tara cycles through shame and vulnerability. It's not like Paul hadn't suspected that this was something they'd done before – no, that was the exact reason they were chosen for this – but Tara's reluctance, the loyalty they clearly showing for each other, protecting their own...These were good people doing a terrible thing. A terrible, awful, necessary thing. 

“Do you?” Gabriel questions. “Do you love her?”

“Yeah.” 

There's a bitterness he pushes away, won't let curl into his chest. He would've taken anything like that earlier. Something that said he wasn't alone in this. He feels selfish for thinking about himself but the feeling stretches raw as he sees Tara so insecure. 

It's so clear Tara's in love with her girlfriend, terrified of what she'd think of her for doing something like this. 

“So, you know what you're fighting for,” Paul says finally and Tara nods. 

They focus back on the building and continue watching and waiting. 

When the fire alarm blares over the field, Paul already knows what he's going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time in between my project updates are atrocious and I apologize. I wound up splitting one chapter into three, trying to rearrange things for better POV flow and I'm just depply lost. Honestly, if I had the time, I'd ask for a beta for this fic. As it is, I appreciate anyone that's still reading after so long.
> 
> Love you all.  
> Amy


End file.
